


Home Invasion

by hoomhum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Garden Gnomes, Gen, I don't know how to tag this, M/M, Pre-Slash, Surprise Ending, sort of but not really crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 01:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: It starts with a book-- How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack-- a joke, and then things go a little too far.





	Home Invasion

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for the kinkmeme in 2011. It's one of the first Sherlock fics I ever wrote and I'd like to share it with you all now, if you haven't already read it. 
> 
> The book is real. [How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack: Defend Yourself When the Lawn Warriors Strike (and They Will)](https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/203077/how-to-survive-a-garden-gnome-attack-by-chuck-sambuchino/9781580084635/)

It started out as a joke—a silly gift resulting from the clinic's holiday party. John brought the book home and left it on the sitting room table. It might give their guests something to make conversation about that was slightly, if not significantly more normal than any of Sherlock’s experiments. A book entitled  _How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack_  might bring about a more casual conversation than the rows of slowly decaying beetles that Sherlock had tacked to the wall.  
  
In fact, he had nearly forgotten about the book when he arrived home with the shopping and found Sherlock curled on the couch with it open against his knees. There was a pen in his hands and a look of utmost concentration on his face as he scribbled notes.   
  
John raised an eyebrow at the sight, but didn’t say a word. He shuffled the jars of earthworms to one side on the table and set about putting away the groceries.  
  
He noticed later, after dinner, that there was a baseball bat lying across the top of the sofa.  
  
~  
  
Sherlock was not quite in between cases. He had a couple of things on, but nothing that proved challenging. A few missing rings and a missing wife, a troublesome bit of alpha numeric code; he hadn’t reached the point yet of pestering Lestrade for cold case files and John wondered why that was.  
  
He remembered Sherlock’s furious note making and, out of an idle curiosity that often overtook him on the evenings that Sherlock took to the streets without warning, flipped through the pages of the book.  
  
The text was covered in red pen.  
  
Paragraphs of Sherlock’s neat script lined certain margins, arrows pointed out passages and phrases were underlined. Next to a bulleted list of factors that increased one’s risk of attack by garden gnome,  _There are gnomeowners in your neighborhood_ , Sherlock had scribbled, “Check Anderson—possibly in league with garden statuary.”   
  
John chuckled, settling in on the sofa to read Sherlock’s commentary.  
  
~  
  
Two days later when an inquiry took them to a little antique and trinket shop across town John noticed a couple of small figurines arranged on a wooden shelf near the door. Sherlock was in the back with a manager, shouting about the suspect’s chest of drawers. He wasn’t likely to do the man any trauma.  
  
John was pocketing his wallet when Sherlock returned, flushed with triumph.   
  
“We’ve got him,” he announced, rattling off an address. “Come on.”  
  
If he noticed the bag that John had thrust into the pocket of his jacket, he didn’t mention it. He did however, catch John’s eye and offer him a grin.  
  
A gnome appeared on the mantel, right next to the skull and another on top of the mysteriously unlabelled padded envelope in the refrigerator. The third gnome John placed on the bathroom counter.

~

The next morning, the gnomes had moved. John came down for breakfast to find the centre of the kitchen table adorned by a small decapitated ceramic body. The smiling head was hanging from the spout of the tea kettle on the table. Sherlock sat at the end of the table, nose buried in a textbook.  
  
“Pest problem?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t look up.  
  
“It’s being taken care of.”  
  
The gnome from the bathroom appeared to be pushing  _How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack_  off the edge of the desk and into the bin and the one that had been in the refrigerator had disappeared entirely. John allowed himself a smile as he fixed his toast. This was certainly one way to redirect Sherlock’s energy when he was bored.  
  
When John returned from the clinic that day there were arrows on the walls, some pointing toward the window and others tracing paths toward the door from which he had just entered.  
  
“What’s this, then?” He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Mrs. Hudson. Frowning, he stepped toward the nearest arrow, and was relieved to find it was only a plastic cling.  
  
“Oh-“ Sherlock said, shuffling a stack of papers to the other side of the desk. “I’ve clearly labelled all possible escape routes in the case of an attack.”  
  
“This isn’t a first story window.” John looked down into the street. “And there’s no fire escape.”  
  
“Well I never said it was the  _best_  route to take,” Sherlock allowed. “There are others.”  
  
Snorting a laugh of agreement, John rescued his laptop from the pile of paper threatening to overwhelm it and sat down. They didn’t speak of the gnomes or the possibility of a gnome attack for the rest of the evening.  
  
~  
  
The refrigerator gnome eventually showed up, tucked inside of John’s shoe. He discovered it with a loud yelp and a curse, when trying to put on said shoe. The gnome, cheery expression smiling beneath its pointed red hat, was unapologetic when John pulled it free. So was his flatmate, when he poked his head out of the kitchen.  
  
“Careful John,” Sherlock said. “They’re getting bold.”  
  
John quenched the urge to throw the little figurine in Sherlock’s direction, enclosing it in his fist instead.   
  
“Right.” He flexed his toes, which were smarting a bit from their unexpected encounter with unforgiving ceramic. “Thanks for the warning.”  
  
That wasn’t the last gnome that John discovered that appeared to be out to get him. He thought perhaps it was just a coincidence, or that Sherlock thought himself clever and hadn’t fully considered the consequences of sneaking a hard ceramic figurine into John’s pillowcase. The next gnome appeared under his foot as he stepped into the shower and John thought that Sherlock surely couldn't be that clueless.  
  
He caught himself, just barely, on the shower curtain and seeing what had caused him to lose his balance- as well as hurt his foot- he snatched up the figure and hurled it in the direction of the bin.   
  
It hit the wall and shattered, pieces scattering across the floor in a minefield for bare feet.  
  
~  
  
While John had been moving the gnomes to perfectly innocuous places, such as the windowsill, or on top of Sherlock’s violin case, Sherlock seemed constantly to put them somewhere just to annoy or inconvenience John, uncaring that they were also safety hazards. When John broke a gnome or binned it, another two showed up in its place. They were starting to interfere with his daily routine, with his sleep.   
  
The day John arrived at the clinic to find a gnome sitting in his chair, he decided that things had gone too far.

~

John was distracted all day at the clinic trying to figure out how to broach the subject with his flatmate. By the time he was climbing the stairs to the flat, he had something in mind. A direct approach was probably best.  
  
Sherlock was waiting for him right inside the door, which made John more than a little suspicious. He glanced around quickly, but nothing seemed to be on fire or destroyed.   
  
“This thing with the gnomes has got to stop,” he said. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John wanted to get his word in. “It isn’t funny any more- you realize I could’ve broken my neck from that one in the shower? It can’t go on.”  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I couldn’t agree more.”  
  
“I know you’ve been bored lately but-- hold on, what?”  
  
“You’re quite right.” Sherlock was smiling, almost one of his “Ooh, a serial killer!” kind of smiles, and he seemed to be bouncing a bit on his toes.  
  
“I’m right,” John echoed, suspicious. Sherlock nodded, stepping out of John’s path and pointing toward the sofa.  
  
“I think you’ll find the solution I’ve come up with quite amenable.”   
  
There was a puppy sitting on the sofa. John’s brain refused to comprehend that fact for a moment. The puppy was small, no more than nine or ten weeks old, and looked up at John with eyes deeply set in a flat, wrinkled face.  
  
“A bulldog,” John said aloud, already moving toward the small pup. It watched him approach, head resting on its paws.  
  
“A bulldog,” Sherlock repeated proudly.   
  
In his mind’s eye, John could see the page in the garden gnome survival guide in the chapter on “Gnomeproofing.” Unless he was quite mistaken, one of the suggestions was to get “A Big %&*! Dog.”  
  
“He’s not very big.” That was a good thing too, because the little dog was snuffling its way onto John’s lap. He petted it, not knowing quite what else to do.  
  
“Gift from a client.” Sherlock dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “It seemed the easiest solution.”  
  
“Have you ever owned a pet? You can hardly take care of yourself half the time.”  
  
“I had a tarantula when I was nine.” Sherlock sat down beside him and lifted the dog out of John’s lap.  
  
“Of course you did,” said John, not at all surprised. “And what happened to it?”   
  
“Mycroft. He still suffers from occasional arachnophobia.”  
  
John decided that was not a line of questioning he wanted to pursue. Sherlock looked faintly ridiculous in his suit and jacket, cuddling a bulldog puppy to his chest. John did a quick check of the room— at last count there had been a dozen gnomes scattered around the flat and now there wasn’t a single one in sight.  
  
“I don’t follow,” he admitted finally. “If you wanted a dog you could have just said.“  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Gladstone’s primary purpose will be to enhance the security of the flat.” The puppy in question was dropped back into John’s lap without any further warning.  
  
“And this has nothing to do with the attention I gave the bulldogs involved with that case last month?” John asked, putting one and one together.  
  
“A happy coincidence,” said Sherlock. He stood, crossing the room for his coat as though that would hide the smile lingering upon his lips. “I am merely concerned with the sanctity of our home.”  
  
“Right.” John looked down at the puppy in his lap, which looked back up at him before doing its best to lick his chin. “Thank you.”  
  
Sherlock left a moment later and when John went into the kitchen to find a bowl of water for the newest inhabitant of 221b he was gratified to see a pile of broken ceramic figurines in the bin.


End file.
